“Take off your shirt,” Yassin said.
He unbuttoned his sport shirt and let it drop to the floor. As if in an alternate state, he watched as the wire was taped to his still-bruised chest. He winced with each touch of the man’s fingers.
“Say something,” he was instructed.
“I have nothing to say.”
Yassin motioned with his head toward the other man standing close by.
The “thumbs up” signal was given.
“We are set,” Yassin said.
Blair put his shirt back on. The other man guided him out of the room, along the corridor, and up the stairs to the garage.
“Abdul will be your driver,” Yassin explained. “He will take you to the distribution center. He will listen in as you give your instructions, then drive you back here to be reunited with your daughter. At that point, your task will be completed, and you will never hear from us again.”
Like hell, Blair wanted to say, knowing he couldn’t believe him.
They rode the Westside Highway to the Holland Tunnel, then crossed into New Jersey.
Blair was seated in the back of the Lincoln. The nearer they got to their destination, the more he mentally pleaded for release. He didn’t want to make a decision, would give anything to avoid it.
They entered the town of Secaucus and were soon at the sprawling building that Blair knew well. It was one of many in this same neighborhood, of average size, two stories tall.
Blair’s heart labored as they drove around to the side and pulled to a stop.
There were six loading bays, four of which were occupied. A few were accepting deliveries. Most had goods that were being shipped out. The drivers and their helpers were concentrating on their tasks.
Abdul turned toward him. “You go now,” he said in passable English. “I wait here and you come back. Yes?”
It was cloudy and humid, but Blair still appreciated the fresh air as he stepped from the car.
Choose!
That one command filtered through his brain.
The closer he got to the front of the building, the slower he progressed. Finally, he opened the door, moved inside, and approached the reception desk.
“Mr. Mulligan?” the woman questioned, her mouth flying open.
“Hello, Debbie,” Blair said.
“My God, are you okay?” She jumped up, and pointed to the nearest chair. “Here, why don’t you have a seat? Were you in an accident or something?”
“No, no. I’m okay. Could you find Mr. Killgallon for me?” The thought of retracing his steps, making a run for it, truly appealed to him.
“Hey you,” Larry Killgallon said.
The voice jarred him back to reality. Blair turned.
“Holy Christ!” Larry said, his smile dissolving.
“C’mon.” Blair took the initiative and led the way. “Let’s go up to your office.”
Nothing more was said until Larry was seated behind his desk.
“I’m here to authorize the release of Cyber-tech,” Blair pronounced formally for the sake of the wire. He removed his shirt and quickly placed a finger to his lips. “Is the paperwork ready for me to sign?”
Larry reeled back in shock.
Blair shook his head, then pantomimed the need for pen and paper.
While Larry fumbled in his desk drawer, Blair asked for confirmation to be sent to him once the shipments of Cyber-tech were completed. “I’ll need Bill of Lading numbers,” he said.
The pen and paper materialized. Blair began inquiring after Larry’s children as he quickly scribbled his note:
NO MATTER WHAT I SAY, UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES ARE YOU TO RELEASE CYBER-TECH. THE PRODUCT IS TO BE IMMEDIATELY PLACED IN QUARANTINE. AS SOON AS I LEAVE, YOU ARE TO CALL THE POLICE AND TELL THEM THAT THERE IS AN AL-QAEDA CELL HOLDING MY DAUGHTER HOSTAGE. (ADDRESS AS FOLLOWS.)
Blair wrote out the address and thrust the note in Larry’s hand.
The man’s eyes bulged at what he was reading.
Blair waited.
Larry took the pen in hand. He wrote out his own message and handed it to him.
WHAT CAN I DO TO HELP?
Blair put his palms together, showing a need for prayer.
The other man indicated he understood.
It took the walk outside to bring Blair to his senses. And he chided himself for being so discombobulated he hadn’t thought of it sooner. There was hope. Awfully slim, but hope nonetheless. There was no possible way Yassin could know what he had just done. The script was followed as directed and words spoken on cue. If he hurried, he could pick up Sandra and be out of the house before the police arrived.
He tried to run but his legs wouldn’t allow it.
Hope, an inner voice was telling him.
He finally turned the corner and made his way toward the waiting car.
Blair got into the back seat and shut the door. He could feel his heart pounding. An hour more, he figured. Perhaps less, depending on traffic. Approximately sixty minutes and it would all be over.
Abdul slowly pulled away. He drove past the loading dock, then came to a stop. “Must have cigarette,” he said by way of explanation.
Blair wanted to tell him to make it quick. His nerves were pumped and he couldn’t sit still.
Abdul seemed to be having a problem. Whatever he was trying to get loose—his cigarette package, Blair assumed—was apparently stuck.
Curious, Blair’s gaze went to the rearview mirror and he caught sight of the gun.
He panicked for a moment, then swallowed it down. He quickly leaned over the seat, making a grab for the weapon.
The other man fought him off.
He held on to Abdul’s arm, not knowing where the strength was coming from.
Abdul lashed out, cursing in Arabic.
Something kept Blair going. He raised one of his legs to get better leverage.
The other man pulled.
A tug-of-war ensued that lasted for several minutes. Blair told himself it was now or never, so he yanked on Abdul’s gun hand for all he was worth.
The weapon dropped.
Then both men became caught between the bucket seats. Their arms were pinned between them and neither was able to move. Their chests touched. Blair could feel the other man’s beating heart.
Abdul swore again.
Blair made the mistake of moving a fraction of an inch.
It was just enough to give Abdul the advantage. He kneed Blair in the groin.
The shock caused Blair’s body to jerk backwards. He caught sight of the gun; it had been concealed beneath him. He tried reaching for it, but Abdul noticed the gun as well.
They went for it at the same time.
Their heads collided.
For a moment, they were equally stunned.
Abdul recovered first. The weapon came into his hand and, as if in slow motion, he took aim.
In a last ditch effort, Blair reached up, made contact.
The gun fired.
Blair waited, holding his breath.
There was blood. Too much of it. Soaking his clothes and the interior of the car.
He turned and caught the sightless look in Abdul’s eyes. Numb, he wanted to pause, but he was reminded of his daughter’s plight. He had to get to her before it was too late. Abdul obviously had orders to kill him. Logic dictated that his death had been sanctioned, to be effectuated the moment he approved Cyber-tech’s release. Which meant that everything he’d been told was a lie. Which meant that Sandra…
The thought was too grave to consider.
Adrenaline resurged, he scurried across the back seat, reached a hand out, found the handle, and opened the door.
Removing Abdul from the car was not as easy. The corpse was heavy. He had to maneuver it back and forth.
When the task was done, Blair slipped into the driver’s seat, snapped his seatbelt in place, and drove off. Half to himself, half aloud, he asked God to please, please, PLEASE spare his daughter.
Typical for a Friday, Manhattan traffic was at a near standstill. Hand on the horn, Blair started to weave in and out, taking advantage of the smallest opening. All that mattered now was staying focused, to get to the house in time.
He finally rounded the corner of the street. He pulled into the driveway and a foreboding set in. The front door was standing ajar. He palmed Abdul’s gun that was lying on the seat beside him, and came out of the car on the run.
Caution was thrown to the wind as he hurried into the house. “Sandra?” he called.
He began his descent to the subbasement.
The search only took a few minutes. Finding nothing, he mounted the stairs to the basement level, an area he knew well.
He tried the kitchen first, followed by the room used as his office. There was no sign of life. No sign that anyone had ever lived there. Crouching low, gun in hand, he continued to open doors.
Retracing his steps, he climbed back up to the main floor.
With gun pointed in front, he went from room to room, visualizing Abdul’s blood after he’d been shot, petrified of finding more blood, his daughter’s blood.
“Sandra?” he called again.
He checked the living and dining rooms, each of the three bathrooms, then circled back to the front door.
Now what? he asked himself.
Blair slowly walked out of the house, moved to the edge of the sidewalk, and wearily let himself down at the curb.
The twitch in his right eye felt like a constant pain. In the distance he heard the sound of sirens. No doubt, Larry Killgallon had come through for him.
But it was far too late, he knew.